There's No Place Like Home

Dude, I’ve turned into a very boring, very grumpy version of myself.

Despite that fact that the Husband and I will be in South Africa in less than two weeks our present conversations are spectacularly banal:

Husband: So what did you do today?

Me: Oh, the usual answered questions about absent wives, dead mothers and the location of a dog’s grave. You?

Husband: Not a bad day’s diving, found quite a good spot.

Me: Good. Listen, while I remember, you need to M.O.T the car and pay the tax.

Husband: I know.

Me: And I’m trying to buy travel insurance, but do you think If heaven forbid something happened and we get treatment in a private hospital instead of a government one they’ll pay? Blah, blah, insurance…blah, blah worry, blah, blah. And we need to sort out…blah, blah…book domestic flights…blah, blah…

I am coma inductively boring at present.

If living in monochrome wasn’t bad enough I’ve also become so cantankerous. My communication with Humphrey has dropped drastically to the shortest most monosyllabic answers I can muster (which is rare for the usually loquacious moi):

Humphrey: Where’s Moe?

Me: Harrington Manor. [Said in staccato.]

Humphrey: Where?

Me: Nursing Home.

Humphrey: When did she go there then, this morning? Last night?

Me: She’s been there awhile. She stays there all the time.

Humphrey: But when did she go?

Me: March.

Humphrey: [Eyes widen in disbelief. Checks date on newspaper] Oh, come on! Ha, Ha.

Me: [Silently continue dishwashing or some such domestic chore.]

Humphrey: Do you know where Moe is?

Me: Harrington. Manor. Nursing. Home.

Humphrey: When did she go there then?

Me: March.

Humphrey: [Eyes widen in discombobulation] Oh, come on. [Ha, Ha. Strange nervous laughter.]

I can’t go on. It’s like Chinese water torture; each question is like a drop of water to the forehead. The edges of my sanity are slipping away.

The only saving grace is that I bought myself a pair of bronze brogues (my new found discovery of online shopping, very dangerous). Amazing how a pair of shiny shoes jazz up the tedium of vacuuming. And now when Humphrey asks me for the ten millionth time where his wife is I click the heels together three times and mutter under my breath, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’

The Husband's parting shot, "Girls don't wear brogues." His sartorial stock is very low.

The Danger of the Big Fish

I don’t think I’m much of a romantic. I’m just not. I know from experience that overtly romantic gestures like being forced to slow-dance to a Kenny G playing saxophonist in a shopping Mall turn me a gagging shade of embarrassed puce. Heaven forbid being serenaded by a bloke, unless you are a bona fide Rock God (Rod Stewart* singing ‘You Wear it Well’) I would rather eat used hairy wax-strips. Before the Husband I hated any Public Displays of Affection (P.D.A’s – get a room will you). While I love watching an oestrogen-fuelled rom-com, I’m not fooled by their ethereal plot lines. In my view if you love someone you do your best to keep their heart safe – sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad.

Despite my non-romantic leanings, lately (betwixt domestic chores) I’ve been thinking about long lost love or the one that got away - that fabled boyfriend/girlfriend from long ago with whom you were (as you remember it) blissfully happy but some cruel twist of fate terminated your happy ever after. I’ve thinking about the one that got away or the ‘Big Fish’, because a dear married friend of mine still pines for hers. He is a ghost of her wilder carefree past (they dated at University) a time before 9-5 employment, bills and the domestic realities of being an adult. She is still in contact with her Big Fish, although he is now a father and if her fears are confirmed is soon to be married to the mother of his child.

The problem is that I gave her the old ‘beds made and now we must sleep in them’ advice that my parents are rather fond of and she told me in no uncertain terms to ‘cut the shit’. So I started wondering about the lure of the Big Fish. Surely their charm is that they are the One that got away and for this very reason you won’t find yourself arguing with them whether the toilet seat should rest parallel or perpendicular to the toilet bowl. You won’t find yourself hassling your former love about outstanding bills or sex or any or the other nagging prolixity of adult domestic life.

The Big Fish will swim happily in your vague memories of another time when you were younger, more carefree and probably having a lot more fun. And it is for that reason that is exactly where they should remain. Because while it’s comforting to play a fantasy round of ‘what if’ when the suburban grind gets you down, if your Big Fish was scratching his testicles in bed next to you and leaving the toothpaste lid off you might find he’s not so unlike your current sprat.

After careful consideration I'm sticking to my initial (non-romantic) advice, as a wise man (my father) once said, “If you pull the Tiger’s tail you better be prepared to hold on for the ride.” And who knows you might just emerge from the encounter a roaring Tiger Wife.

Just a thought from a pragmatist to a romantic, take it, don’t take it, I’ll leave it with you.

*Rod Stewart, another of my crazed old man attractions. I saw him in concert, that man can rock skintight leopard print jeans like no other.

Wee Willie Winkie

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast.


~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

From my very vague memories of High School English old Willie Shakespeare once talked about the wonders of sleep, namely that a good kip knitted up the (un)raveled sleeve of the day’s worries. Unlike the Bard, dear old Humphrey is not a fan of sleep, he prefers to spend his nocturnal hours on the move; rattling locked doors, peering in cupboards and rooms for his late mother/dead dog/absent wife. Last night his constant low-level rumblings slowly unpicked the seams of my sleep to the point where this morning I both look and feel like a dog-eared, (somewhat wrinkled) frayed sleeve.

Humphrey is no stranger to nocturnal wanderings the Old Bill has brought him back on no fewer than 6 occasions after he was seen wandering down country lanes in his tartan pyjamas, rather like another nocturnal character “Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,Up stairs an' doon stairs in his nicht-gown,Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock.”

After spending a (mild summer) night entangled in a barbwire fence Humphrey’s family finally installed security locks on all the doors. Now like troubled poltergeist Humphrey spends night after night trying to escape, attempting to use blunt kitchen knives to pries open doors. I generally sleep through his wanderings, the tink-tink of a clattering kitchen knife just another familiar nocturnal symphony round here. These late night noises usually only last about half an hour after which point Humphrey gets bored (or forgets what he’s doing) and goes back to bed, but last night Wee Willie Winkie was on the move for his half hourly spurts but at hourly intervals. Eventually at 6.30am I heard repeated rattling at my locked door and opened it to find a fully dressed Humphrey complete with raincoat and sun hat demanding that I find the keys to his car because he must go home.

Me: Humphrey, you are home this is Locklear Farm.

Humphrey: I know this is Locklear Farm, but I don’t live here.

Me: Well, where do you live?

Humphrey: Over the hill, that way [gestures vaguely to his right].

Me: Ah, well it’s very early it’s 6.30 in the morning. Can we go a bit later?

Humphrey: What? It’s not morning it’s 6.30 at night.

[Insert the above conversation repeated 3 times here.]

After a further 30 minutes of wrangling I persuaded Humphrey to go back to bed. At which point I searched in vain for his pyjamas and eventually gave up, issuing him a clean pair and banishing him to bed for another hour or four (he usually only rises at 10am after a night of tinkering).

A cup of tea later when my eyes had adjusted to the dull morning light I located Humphrey’s pyjamas – neatly folded up on the cooker. His left slipper was wedged next to the milk in the fridge.

Eish.

*Click here to view Wee Willie Winkie Image in its original domain.

Folding the time-space continuum

I fear that the space-time continuum has folded in on itself. Time itself is broken and I will be forced to answer Humphrey’s incessant questioning about the whereabouts of his dead mother forever! This week has dragged in a manner not dissimilar to a worm-infested dog wiping its undercarriage across the living room carpet.

Let me detail the highlights of the week:

1) I dyed my hair with a home dye kit. What should have been a warm golden light brown (to cover my previous ginger incarnation) has come out as more of a plumy paprika.

2) I bought some shoes online. Italian leather bridesmaid kitten heels. Bonjourno Girls.

3) I have developed an addiction to vampire TV series True Blood and spend large portions of my day analysing the merits (to put it euphemistically) of Vampire Bill (dark, brooding and gentlemanly)

versus Eric (Blonde, Scandinavian, dangerous and gorgeous).

I think you can see my dilemma.

That’s all I have to show for the 44th week of my 27*th year. I rest my case the space-time continuum is definitely broken.

{Oh, and did I mention that the Husband has bought himself an iphone, which means he might start reading my blog. Obviously my vampire fantasies cannot compete with the joy of marriage to a very hot mortal.}

*And a correction following a facebook comment in which the Pantaholic pointed out that I was lying about my age I had to do the sum, 2011-1983=28! I forgot I was a year older. Proof that space-time continuum is broken or brain atrophying at alarming rate!

A Wicked Waiting Room

Sometimes this job makes me feel like an attendant in God’s waiting room. Every day is a slightly blurry carbon copy of day before repeated ad infinitum, ad nauseam etc.

So in order to break the monotony Humphrey and I took another trip to Harrington Manor to see his nuttier than a fruitcake better half, Moe. As this trip took place on a Sunday Harrington Manor was bustling with visitors and in-mates. The smell of urine was noticeably absent and majority of the lifers were gathered in the sitting room, except for Moe. We found her in her bedroom carefully shredding a chocolate box and stashing it in her underwear drawer. I noted that she had one pink slipper on and one blue one, but decided not to interfere. Moe was rather pleased to see us and introduced us to the various stuffed animal toys in the room, before putting them in her underwear drawer alongside the chocolate box rippings:

Humphrey: [Spying the ripped rubbish] Let me take that Moe, I’ll find a bin for it.

Moe: Yes, thank you darling.

Humphrey: [Studying the handful of rubbish, spies an unidentifiable red plastic object] What’s this Moe? You best keep it in case you need it.

Moe: [Studying the plastic piece in Humphrey’s hand.] No, I don’t need that.

Humphrey: Are you sure? I think I’ll put it here. [Places object on side table.]

Moe: Oh, no that’s an Ancient Monument you can’t put it there. Put it in the drawer.

After Humphrey had placed the ‘Ancient Monument’ in the drawer we sauntered down to the sitting room to a cup of tea amongst the other lifers. I noticed that “Oh was a wicked waste of time” who I shall henceforth name Wicked was sitting in her usual chair by the door and muttering to herself. Another gentleman with a Zimmer frame was in a couch opposite us (Norm), perched next to him was a delightful little dear with matching Zimmer frame, lets call her Mabel.

Humphrey: [To Moe] Hurry up dear and drink your coffee.

Moe: It’s not coffee it’s tea.

Humphrey: Well tea then. Hurry up and drink it so I can take your cup.

[At this point Norman attempts to get up.]

Moe: [To Norman] C’mon old chap, upsie daisies! Bottoms up!

[Norman’s attempt fails, he sits back down. Mabel smiles sweetly at me.]

Humphrey: C’mon dear, drink your tea.

[Norman attempts to rise again.]

Moe: [To Norman] That’s the spirit. Up you come. [Norman manages to get up and shuffles across the room.] LIFT OFF!

Wicked: [From her chair in the corner Wicked can be heard muttering] Bloody waste of time this place. You’re hungry, you’re thirsty they don’t care BITCHES.

Humphrey: Come on Moe. Drink your cup of tea.

Moe: I’m busy I’m watching Norman do his laps, I think his trousers are about to come off. [Norman is now pacing back and forth and his brown belt-less cords are indeed in danger of falling down. An orderly pulls them up at the crucial moment.]

[Mabel smiles sweetly at me.]

Wicked: [Still muttering in the background] The bastards, the buggers. Leave you here to die. Don’t give a bugger about you.

Humphrey: Drink your tea Moe.

Moe: [Ignoring Humphrey watching Norman’s Zimmer pacing with rapt attention] That’s the spirit Boyo, back and forth, back and forth, forth and back.

[At this point Mabel attempts to get up, no doubt to join Norman’s zimmered ramblings, Mabel’s first upward attempt is unsuccessful.]

Moe: [To Mabel] Upsie Jump. Get to the top.

Mabel: [Flopping back into chair] Up to the top to start the day again. [Second attempt to rise is successful] And what a perfect day it is.

[Mabel shuffles forward and fixes me with the sweetest little smile.]

Mabel: [To Me] I must thank you for coming dearie. It was so lovely to see you and we all have enjoyed your visit so.

Me: Oh, thank you so much. I enjoyed visiting you.

Mabel: You must come and see us again. We do love it so.

Me: I promise I’ll be back.

Mabel: Make sure you do dear. I’m off to lunch now.

And with that Humphrey and I took our leave. The sound of Wicked’s muttering followed us down the hall, “That’s right leave me here to rot, you bastards.”

Somebody up there has a dubious sense of humour.

PantsGate

Today I took Humphrey to the Dentist. After 20 rounds of tooth brushing (because he kept forgetting that he had brushed his gnashers mere minutes earlier) we were running a little late.
Whilst hurrying Humphrey across the car park he uttered an, “Oh, Damn!” and stopped dead in his tracks. Fearing the worst I followed his gaze down to his shoes. Peeping out of the side of his trouser leg was a pair of his gigantic greying Y-fronts. Not just any Y-fronts but a dirty pair complete with a violently visible skid mark down the back. Humphrey quickly snaffled them up and put them in his coat pocket:

Me: [Scanning car park for witnesses to Pantsgate] Humphrey are those your underpants?

Humphrey: [Tee-hee] Yes it appears they are.

Me: [Face a vision of pure bewilderment] But you are wearing underpants?

Humphrey: [Still giggling] Yes. [Chortle-snort]

Me: So wheeeere? Did those come from?

Humphrey: I don’t know they must have been in my trousers.

Me: And you didn’t feel them in your trousers? [Scanning said trousers for other abnormalities]

Humphrey: Well, not till they wiggled out.

Completely bamboozled by the appearance of the mysterious unmentionables I then had the horrendous task of retrieving them from Humphrey’s coat pocket, because who knows what he might do with them in the dentist, probably wipe his nose on them brandishing the skidder for all to see. Of course as we were already running late for the tooth mechanic I had no choice but to stash the giant soiled man pants IN MY HANDBAG.

Both the bag and I mentally scarred now.

Welcome to the PantyZone

Thank goodness I did a full year of teacher training, it has equipped me with the invaluable skill of manufacturing time-consuming word searches for Humphrey. As he is stricken with the memory of an aging goldfish he can do the same one over and over again, so it really is a win-win situation. In order to keep his old brain ticking over I like to include words like ‘discombobulate’ and ‘alligator’ as well as a few easier one-syllable numbers like ‘pot’ and ‘owl’. Humphrey is also an enthusiastic jigsaw puzzler we are currently on the second 500 piece Titanic jigsaw. I marvel at his discombobulated brain because although he can’t retain basic information like that his mother died some 30 years ago, he can spend hours piecing together the Titanic.

Aside from jigsaws and word searches I am bored out of my little box. To pass the time I’ve taken to eating - a dangerous pastime I well know. Yesterday an entire bar of Green and Black’s chocolate passed my lips and is no doubt wedging itself onto my hips as we speak. This is alarming not because I’m particularly worried about my ever-expanding derriere out of vanity or for fear of my marriage (the Husband has kindly commented that he will still love me if I grow to the size of a house – isn’t he a good liar) no, I’m worried because I am as previously mentioned to be a bridesmaid at my dear school chum Klong’s wedding. And Klong will not take kindly to a heifer galloping down the aisle behind her. And so I need to step away from the biscuit tin for fear of the arse to dress ratio of my bridesmaid’s ensemble.

In order to distract myself from the ubiquitous sweets and cakes that are always to be found in geriatric homesteads I have taken to reading the home shopping guide with increased interest. I was amazed to note that in this particular home shopping guide one can purchase a non-slip bath mat, avocado peeler or vibrator?! However my favourite item on display has to be the Slimboxer, which appears to be some sort of Bridget Jones’ control-pant for men:

According to the manufacturers, “Once you wear it, you will immediately feel that Slimboxer reinforces, invigorates and revitalises your entire bust. [Do men need and invigorated Bust?] A wellbeing and energy feeling [?] propagates from your thighs up to your chest top" [saucy].

So that is the Husband’s Christmas present taken care off. And I can continue eating like a bulimic locked in the pantry because I can simply wear the ‘PantyZone’ under my bridesmaid’s dress, which will afford me an “ enhanced, rounded, pulpy [?] and sexy buttocks…as though you intensively practiced a sport activity.” Apparently one's bottom requires pulpy-ing because (and i quote) "as one gets older, the body starts producing more of some hormones that may masculinize your shape (hips become linear, buttocks fall, the belly becomes round and the waist measurement thicks.)"

Well, shit, if my hips will be nothing but lines, my buttocks is going to prolapse and my waist is going to thick I might as well eat another bloody biscuit...

In a bit of a Plether

Life with Humphrey is going fairly smoothly, with the exception of having to explain my geographical origins to him twenty times an hour and having to lie to him about his mother’s whereabouts. Humphrey is a fixated on his dear old ma and cannot compute that she passed from this dimension in 1978. Thus the family has taken to bending the truth a little by saying that she is in Marlon - she is technically buried in Marlon. If pressed for more details we say she is staying with friends and will be there overnight. This ploy normally reaches a point of disbelief on Humphrey’s behalf at which stage his exasperated son-in-law (Mr Wolf, who shares the house with us) does a little maths lesson:

Wolf: [To Humphrey] How old are you?

Humphrey: 23.

Wolf: You’re sure you’re 23?

Humphrey: No, I was born in ’23.

Wolf: So how old does that make you?

Humphrey: 85.

Wolf: Well, close enough 88, but lets go with 85. Now then how old is your mother?

Humphrey: 90?

Wolf: So if you’re 85 and your mother is 90, then she was 5 years old when she had you?

At this point Humphrey generally bursts into incredulous laughter and goes off humming, like a small child sticking his fingers in his ears to block out the truth. He will be unusually quiet about his mother for at least an hour after his maths tutorial while some rational part of his brain stirs and acknowledges logic. To amuse himself during this lucid hour he will re-read the same page in the Daily Mail for a full 60 minutes.

Unlike Humphrey I cannot re-read the same article all day long and so work my way progressively through the Daily Mail and I am not well pleased with what I’ve learnt. Today for example I discovered that sugar causes wrinkles! Of course I'd heard these nasty rumours before, but now I was faced with documentary evidence. In said morale-destroying article an intrepid journalist used one of them predictive-aging-computer-program-thingies to illustrate how she would look in 10 years on: A) A High Booze Diet B) A High Sugar Diet or C) A High Fag Diet. The results where not pretty. Option A) ended with jowls, spider veined cheeks and blood shot eyes. B) Resulted in puffy-puffy chipmunk cheeks, more chins than a Chinese phone book, wrinkly eyes and more eye baggage than is allowed on a transatlantic flight. To be honest option C) was looking the sweetest, with yellowed teeth, crow's feet, spider- linage round a puckered dog's bottom mouth and noticeably mode-thin cheeks. Thanks to the Daily Rag I now have an additional worry about the devastating effect of my affair with chocolate, whereas before I was only concerned with its effect on my dimpled derriere I now know that it can affect my other cheeks too.

Having now acquired the Fear about the effect of sugar on my youth, I foolishly went shopping. Popping into H&M I discovered a delightful pair of brown plether, cotton panelled legging – the likes of which I had recently spotted in black leather on Bond girl and British actress Gemma Arterton when I celeb-spotted her at Marylebone Station last week. See exhibit A below:

Inspired by my brush with celebrity I tried the cheaper imitation leather leggings on. I should have stopped the madness when I had difficulty getting them over my ankles, but I persevered. I wrestled those bad boys over my sugary thighs and turned to marvel at myself in the mirror. ‘Ooh, get in!’ [Cue vigorous fist pumping]. For a fleeting moment I caught sight of an off-duty movie star resplendent in leather. But as my vision cleared and I cavorted to the right to study my bottom at a 45-degree angle I heard the unmistakable pop of a seam giving way. Frozen in fear of more seam-poppage I had ample time to study the incredible camel-toe awarded by rock-star leather tailoring. Attempting to extricate myself from the cookie-cutters took a further 10 minutes of pulling, grunting, sweating, swearing and light seam-poppage. I seemed to have developed cankles, as the plether was remarkably unforgiving around the ankle region. After more expletives and heavy breathing I emerged red-faced from the change-room and flung the leatherette leggings at a rather bemused looking sales assistant.

Clearly rock-star tailoring is not the answer to retaining my rapidly sucrose-faded youth…if it wasn’t for those flimsy sweatshop seams…

OH WHAT A WICKED WASTE OF TIME...

It turns out that Mr Coldsnap-Tailor has a Mrs Coldsnap-Tailor, i.e. Humphrey has a wife called Moe. Turns out Moe also suffers from Dementia but unlike Humphrey’s harmless 3-second memory Moe likes to shift furniture around, cutting family photographs and paintings into miniscule little squares and generally going a-wandering. The family unable to deal with two demented parents finally snapped and put Moe in a Nursing Home specialising in Dementia care.

And so it was that Humphrey and I headed off to visit Moe at Harrington Manor Nursing Home. We were led up a flight of stars to the lock-down section, which is one long carpeted corridor with bedrooms coming off it and a lounge/dining area at the end. The first thing you notice about Harrington Manor’s advanced dementia ward is the heady aroma of CO(NH2)2 or urea, for those of you who managed to avoid High School Chemistry. It would appear that Dementia smells strongly of piddle.

The second thing that you notice about the Dementia ward is the manic energy it exudes. Standing in the corridor sniffing the waft of wee, we immediately spotted a manic Moe zigzagging across the corridor from room to room, carrying: a pair of shoes, a bottle of shampoo, a teddy bear and a coat hanger. She immediately recognized Humphrey:

Moe: [Giving Humphrey a kiss on the cheek] Hello dear, take this. [Hands Humphrey the coat hanger]

Humphrey: Oh, what’s this? What do you want me to do with it?

Moe: Well, put it in the bathroom.

Humphrey: The bathroom? [Stares quizzically at coat hanger]

Moe: Oh, give it here. [Snatches coat hanger from Humphrey and marches off down the hall]

Humphrey: But Moe, dear, what are you doing?

Moe: [Over her shoulder] I’m looking…for everything.

Humphrey: But are you coming home? We’ve come to get you.

Moe: [Walking away] Well, of course not Humphrey I’m getting much better.

And so it continued with Moe collecting more items and putting others down as Humphrey and I trailed behind her from room to room.

Suddenly a bald man brandishing a hairbrush walked up to us. “Hello” said Baldy. “Hello” I replied, “is that your hairbrush?”

“Well, obviously” responded Baldy, who then proceeded to mime brushing luscious long locks. Having mime-brushed his hair Baldy joined our little conga-line – Moe hustling from room to room, Humphrey tripping over her heels and Baldy waving his hairbrush behind Humphrey’s back. I paced 5 steps behind the crazy train. Eventually a care-assistant intervened and sent us down the hall to the lounge area to have a seat. Here sipping on a congealed cup of tea Moe was suddenly quite lucid and we had a passable 5 minute conversation about who I was. The conversation promptly deteriorated:

Moe: So where are you staying?

Me: I’m staying at the farm to help out while your daughter is away.

Moe: Oh, where has she gone?

Me: To Australia to visit your sister.

Moe: Yes, that’s right, well I’m glad you’re there to keep Humphrey in line. [Looks over to Humphrey] Now, be a good boy and go stand in the window.

Humphrey: [Looking incredulous] Be a good boy? Stand in the window?

Moe: Yes, like that man who walks on the window.

Humphrey: Do you eat apples?

Moe: Me? Apples? Heaven’s no!

Humphrey: Oh, I see there are plenty on the ground…

[Interjection by diminutive woman sitting in the corner] OH WHAT A WICKED WASTE OF TIME. THIS PLACE WILL DRIVE YOU MAD!

Moe: What’s she doing? Is she performing?

At this point I started our goodbyes, there really is only so long that you can spend surrounded by madness with the smell of widdle up your nose.

Me: [To Moe] Listen Moe, I’m afraid that Humphrey and I need to go. We’ll come back and see you later in the week.

Moe: Yes, you should take him home [gestures to Humphrey]. Take this with you [hands me her teddy bear] You can’t trust anyone round here. He’ll be safer with you.

Me: Oh, right we’ll do that then. [Accepting the teddy bear] You’re sure you don’t want to keep him?

Moe: Oh, no I’ve already got a dog and two cats and they’re all right because they behave. [Looks disapprovingly at Humphrey] If only they all behaved.

On the way out I handed the teddy bear to a care assistant. “Oh, thank you, that’ll be Lilly’s, she’d be devastated if it got lost.”

Well Moe was right about one thing, you can’t trust anyone in there.

Mr Coldsnap-Tailor of the Goldfish Memory

My parents’ will be pleased to know that I’m once again in gainful employment. I find myself on a farm in Leafy Bucks (Buckinghamshire) looking after Mr Coldsnap-Tailor, who shall here after be affectionately known as Humphrey. Humphrey, bless his cotton socks has Dementia of the Goldfish 3 second memory variety:

Humphrey: [Looks up from reading the paper] So where do you live?

Me: Edinburgh.

H: [Eyes widening in surprise] Really? [Continues reading newspaper article about dog attack] What’s a Rottweiler?

Me: It’s a breed of dog.

H: Oh, not a wild animal then.

Me: No.

[5 minute pause; Humphrey re-reads the same newspaper article]

H: So are you local?

Me: No, I’m from Edinburgh.

H: [Alarmed eyes] Gosh! Are you really? [Eyes back on The Daily Telegraph]

[5-minute pause; Humphrey re-reads article on dog attack]

H: What’s a Rottweiler then?

Me: Type of dog.

H: Oh. [Looks back at paper] So where are you are from then?

As you can see I’m going to have a lovely time with Humphrey.

Yesterday ‘Dances with Wolves’ was on telly and as I have a dirty old-man crush on Kevin Costner I subjected Humphrey to Mr Costner getting tribal with the Native Americans. In one scene ‘Dances with Wolves’ (Costner) and his love interest ‘Standing Fist’ were making out passionately under a tree, the scene cut to ‘Standing Fist’ disrobing rather steamily in ‘Dances with Wolves’ Tepee:

Humphrey: She had rather more clothes on outside the tent.

Me: Yes, I think she’s seducing him.

Humphrey: She’s doing a good job. [Scene change to ‘Dances with Wolves’ and ‘Standing Fist’ gaining Biblical knowledge of each other] Is she his wife then? What are they doing now?

Me: What’s that you want a cup of tea? Right away Sir.

Not sure I can deal with discussing Dances with Wolves’ Standing Fist to a demented octogenarian. Tea anyone?

First Class

‘Nom-nom-nom,’ that is the sound of me enjoying my complementary First Class Smoked Salmon sandwich. After finding myself in the First Class carriage of my train down to London I have come to the conclusion that I will always entrust the booking of travel tickets to my Husband, even if he does use my credit card to book and then blame his techno-phobia for the upgrade.

I have been travelling for approximately 1 hour during which time I have consumed: 4 cups of tea, 1 glass of orange juice, 1 gin and tonic, 1 salmon and horseradish sandwich, 1 bag of cheese and onion crisps (the hand cooked larney* variety) and a banana. I am tapping into my complementary wifi Internet allowance with unbridled glee and frankly there is very little more value-for-moneying that I can do. I’m fitting in beautifully with all the posh 'yars' in their business suits and tweeds as I am dressed in muddy ‘Hunter’ wellies and a Marks and Spencer knitted jumper that is into it’s 5th day of wear. I am exuding a strong smell of the country as I have been back in the Bus for the last 5 days. Despite becoming extremely adept at balancing my unmentionables over buckets of boiled water and washing my hair under a cold tap I find the smell of wood smoke hard to shake. And as I say I’m wearing a 5-day-old jumper, now adorned with two spots of 1st Class tea. My only complaint about 1st Class is the tea - on two separate occasions now the stewardess has splashed said beverage down the back of my laptop. Luckily the G&T I am currently imbibing is doing wonders to wash away the pain caused by the near-death of my Mac.

As I am on my way down to London to take on another G.A.P.E role I am enjoying every moment of being served as opposed to being the servant. Tomorrow I will take charge of Mr Dementia on a farm in rural England and my 6 weeks of servitude will begin.

But I have rather enjoyed my leisure time camping out in the Bus and enjoying country pursuits like hill walking and cycling. The Husband was home for a time before going off fishing and in the spirit of physical betterment decided to go for a Jog. Being a little unfit, I offered to cycle alongside him in the capacity of his trainer shouting encouraging slogans like, “Run Fatboy Run!” and “Move it or lose it!” or my personal favourite, “You better check yourself ‘fore you wreck yourself!” Now I say cycle, but the only bicycle available to me was a rather rusty BMX ‘Hopper.’ Undeterred the fact that the BMX was designed for a 7 year old or by the fixed seat set to Midget position, I dressed for the wet Autumnal weather in the Husband’s: waterproof trousers, 2 raincoats, gumboots** and black fishing beanie. When I emerged from the Bus dressed in my sporting apparel, the Husband let out a loud guffaw, smiled tenderly and told me I looked very ‘cute’. He’s very lucky the Bus only has a rear view mirror in which to view one’s fashion choices and that I didn’t check myself in it before we set off. For when we returned and I did catch sight of myself I found myself gazing upon the Michelin man, with what looked like a prophylactic nib on my head.

If anyone had driven past us they would have seen a man jogging along at a respectable pace with a deranged marshmallow-shaped woman (approaching her 30s), riding what appears to be a child’s bike, her knees going like the clappers around her ears, with most of purpling-face obscured by a French letter-like hat. After sprinting up one hill my heart was (to borrow a phrase from Whitnail and I) ‘going like a fucked clock’ and I considered lying down in a drainage ditch to rest.

Obviously change must come as I will be a Bridesmaid in a South African wedding on 17 December and we cannot have guests commenting, ‘Who’s your friend? Ag, shame, it’s just your butt.’

Now where is that complementary snack cart?

*Larney – a South Africanism for posh.
**Gumboots – S.A slang for wellies.

Reject if Centre Can be Depressed

So I fell off the writing wagon.

I was feeling a little flat about my existence and really didn’t think I should bore you with the details. Firstly there was my bureaucratic tax/passport nightmare and then my marriage was giving me gip. All in all I was not a happy camper and neither was my poor Husband.

He returned from sea to find me mid-way through a mental breakdown and did his best to cheer me up, but I just wasn’t having it. I was having a, what-I-like-to-call, Shitty time. And soon my mood spread to the Husband and we became that couple in the pub discouraging all within earshot from EVER MARRYING. One patron indicated that perhaps we needed to liven things up, ‘hint-hint-wink-wink’ and suggested that we go ‘Dogging’. Now for those of you who have lived sheltered lives or just don’t read smut – ‘Dogging’ is when a couple go to a well-known ‘dogging’ site and have sex in their car, leaving the interior lights on for the viewing pleasure of the fellow doggers lurking in the bushes. Having enticed the ‘doggers’ out of the bushes they will surround your car (often with torches and their tackle in hand – I am led to believe that it is mostly men who engage in the bush lurking and such). As I have never engaged in this hounding behaviour myself, my report is based on hearsay and wild conjecture. Anyway the gentleman in the pub knew a spot where this sort of deviant sexual behaviour occurred and so drew us a little map on one of my husband’s cigarette/rizla papers.

After a boozy discussion we decided that our marital woes where not severe enough to call in the hounds, as it were, and so my Husband took great delight in smoking the dogging directions. The word ‘car park’ was visible on his cigarette (Oh, how we laughed):

So in the spirit of ‘lets fix this’ the Husband and I went off on a romantic weekend to the Isle of Skye, off the west coast of Scotland. The trip did not get off to the best start as we were once again hung-over and my Husband’s driving did nothing to sooth either my hangover or my jangled nerves. Mid drive I did wonder if the Husband’s very recent (April) acquisition of a Driving Licence is at the root of our recent marital woes. We finally got to Skye as it was growing dark and booked ourselves into a room at “Saucy Mary’s B&B.”

Fully rested, we took on Skye with great gusto; driving all round the island, beach walking, losing our fishing rod (don’t ask) and spotting sea eagles – all very Britons on holiday in Britain. As it grew dark we found a scenic little campsite alongside majestic hills with a salmon-filled river flowing at their base. We duly pitched our tent to face the river and the hills wondering why all the other campers had positioned their doors the other way. The Husband and I then settled down in the great outdoors to enjoy our dinner and a glass of vino. No sooner had our derrieres touched the ground then we were swarmed by midgies (no, not midgets…midgies – small nasty little fly things that descend in their 10000’s, clustered around your face, or any exposed skin, including plumber’s bum and bite the kak out of you). Faced by such a merciless attack we had to enjoy our dinner in the great outdoors from the safety of our car, staring at the beautiful vista through a bug-splattered windscreen and black cloud of winged insects.

The promise of a restful night buoyed our spirits, until we realised that the Husband had only brought along the single inflatable mattress. Accepting that this was The Universe’s way of facilitating closeness we snuggled up for the night. And we were close - clinging to each other like drowning men to a sinking raft. The smallness of the space and largeness of my arse forced a position shift approximately every 15minutes. Mid-way through our restless sleep the wind picked up and chose to use our tent as a wind tunnel. “Bloody smug camping neighbours with their doors facing away from the oncoming gale” I muttered mid-15 minute turn. And then it started to rain. It rained. And then it rained a bit more. Loudly right above my head. Then the tent sprung a mild leak. At 8am we stuffed our wet muddy tent into a bin bag, chucked it in the car boot and got the hell out of Skye.

On the road out of Skye we learned that the Husband’s great Aunt had ‘joined the ancestors’ and the funeral would be in Wales on Friday. And so it was that on Thursday afternoon I found myself on another road trip with the Hubby, this time joined by the sister-in-law (who I shall henceforth name Symphony) and my 2-year-old nephew, Rooster. We arrived in North Wales at the Wrexham Travel lodge at nightfall. Having failed to book ahead we claimed the last room available – a family room for the 4 of us. And what a lovely room it was, overlooking an old slag heap, a busy traffic circle, the Little Chef takeaway and a petrol station. As we were in the arse end of nowhere and the travel lodge has nothing resembling a restaurant or bar, the three adults in the room were forced into the smallest bathroom on earth, while Rooster fell asleep (he is used to darkness and silence). Of course we did what any grieving family would do and ordered pizza and drank beer in the bathtub (fully clothed, no water in the bath – we’re not that type of family) and had a whispered, rollicking old time while Rooster slept. Another restful night befall me, what with the Husband’s snoring, the furnace like temperament of the room (we later discovered that Rooster had somehow turned on all the heaters) and finally Rooster’s 6am rendition of Twinkle-twinkle little star: Twinkle-twinkle blah, blah, blah, arh, how…

Rooster made the first 5 minutes of the funeral before legging it down the aisle. After which I escorted him outside for Rooster watch - which involved following him around the churchyard while he put stones down the drain, licked dandelions and collected sticks. During those 5 minutes of the ceremony that I attended we sang the first hymn. I could not believe the Angelic voices coming out of that small, middle-aged congregation. I had heard the rumour the Welsh can sing, but truly it was spectacular. Made all the more beautiful by little Rooster’s hearty ‘Blah, Yah, blah, shriek’ to the appropriate tune. Afterwards I met the Welsh family and the many moustached men and the way men and women sat in separate groups talking rugby and ‘how old do you think she is?’ made me think of my extended family back in South Africa.

That night we upgraded to the 4* Ramada Hotel. I left the Husband to his Welsh ancestry and embraced a big screen TV and an Egyptian cottoned double bed. I slept like the dead; in spite of the Husband roaring in at midnight declaring that we should (and I quote) ‘make a baby’ or the fire-alarm that sprang into life at 7am after some buffoon started a fire in the kitchen. The Husband and I were prepared to be burnt alive; him being too grumpy and me being too lazy to save ourselves, but after the fire-marshal thumped on the door and I had located my brassiere (I would rather burn than go bra-less) and clothes that weren’t my pyjamas we joined the other shell-shocked hotel residents in the car park for role call. “Jones, Jones, Smith, Van der Hoven, Jones. Kinky?” called the stout hotelier in rolling Welsh tones. Kinky? I think some one made up a pseudonym for a little hotel rumpty if you ask me. Ah, yes Mr and Mrs Kinky checking in please.

Sometimes all it takes is a weekend of disastrous camping and a Welsh funeral with a kitchen fire to remember why it is you love your Husband.

Taxidermal Tiger

On my last count it has been 4 weeks since I last wiped the bottom of an elderly person. The lack of employment (self-imposed) has turned me into a bit of a lunatic. The lunacy can be linked to a bout of acute procrastination as I attempt to: 1) do an on-line self-assessment tax return 2) convince the British Home Office to give me the hallowed red passport whilst 3) spending some quality time with the Husband before 4) re-embarking on my chosen career path as a geriatric au pair (the thought of phoning the Agency for a new Mrs PantyHead has given me the FEAR).

To put my levels of Procrastination in perspective; last week I started the day by breakfasting on cold Chinese pork balls, followed by a 9.30am viewing of a Tonga vs. All Blacks Rugby match. I threw myself heartily into the violence of the game with a lot of dramatic fist pumping and shouting disparaging comments at the TV, like “Vat hom Fluffy!”* (Get him Fluffy!) (In my defence it is the Rugby World Cup, one is allowed to get a bit excited). The day proceeded along its weird trajectory as I found myself wandering around the Edinburgh museum with the Husband and our friend, Dandy Ben. What should have been an educational outing turned into the Husband obsessively pointing out the genitalia of a variety of stuffed animals. We then landed up in the pub, where the Husband befriended a woman who was a real taxidermist and had a taxidermic kitten as a keyring on her handbag.

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing the petrified cat, or the tequila, but the evening took the unexpected turn when I found myself wailing into my pint that my marriage was broken. Might I add this scene involved the maximum amount of snot, trane* (tears) and histrionics, including dramatic proclamations of “No it will not be alright, it’s broken I tell you, BROKEN!” If there had been a talent scout in the room I might have scooped an Oscar for best actress in a leading dramatic role. Luckily the Husband had already tottered home when I had a wee drizz (as in drizzle) at the bar and my cries fell upon the sympathetic ears of the sister-in-law, Dandy Ben and the rest of the Edinburgh publican community.

The good news is that my marriage isn’t broken, although my head certainly was the following day. I was, in retrospect, just having a mini-melt down. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m a little stressed.

And my bureaucratic nightmare is ongoing. The Tax office is like a mean ex-boyfriend stringing out our failing relationship – heated exchanges, long and expensive phone calls, waiting days/weeks for a sign. All finally culminating in tears and a feeling not dissimilar to sodomy.

All day I obsess about tax, the passport, swearing allegiance to good Old Queen Lizzy. At night my sleep is punctuated by horrible dreams in which a giant pen with an evil chuckle chases me round and round for hours, or I suddenly find myself back in school woefully unprepared for a science test. The school dreams are the worst as the flash back includes a true-to-life vision of me, aged 13 – spotty T-zone, terrible boy-cut hair and an impressive glittering mouth of orthodontics. In one dream, mid- Science test, an orthodontic-elastic breaks free from my braced tooth and hits my friend Jo* square in the eye, causing me to be sent to the Headmistresses office in a flood of tears. *As an aside Jo was a real life school chum who won the nickname of ‘Joconut’ after a particularly bad bowl haircut left her sporting what appeared to be a halved coconut balancing on her head.

But this week I’ve turned a corner. For one thing I’m eternally glad that I’m no longer 13 with braces sitting through endless Chemical Equations. Instead I’m a woman in her prime filling her procrastination with a healthy bit of 9-5 admin work for the sister-in-law (because your family still love you even if you did get a little dronk vir driet after a few tequilas). Today I even had a particularly pleasant exchange with an anonymous man at the end of the Tax Helpline; I think he’s inline for the god parentage of my unborn children.

The Righ' 'Ump

The Husband and I have survived our turbulent week of car drama. After our trusty VW Polo ( posthumously named the Red Baron) went the 'way of all meat', we finally acquired a second hand Peugeot 307 Estate. It's quite a lot of car with a hint of the volvo-driving-soccer-mom about it, but as it was within our means i.e. I didn't have to go on the game to afford it, we are quite pleased. The Silver Fox, as it shall hereto be named, has saved our marriage.

We have survived our first car trip in the Silver Fox from Eastbourne to Edinburgh with fairly little drama, except for a bout of road rage involving a dwarf (and that's not me being mean about the Husband, who at the same height as Tom Cruise assures me is 'almost average height first thing in the morning'):

Husband was working himself into quite a lather of vexation as the red car in front of us surgically attached itself to the preceding car's rear, in the manner of a hemorrhoid and with the discomfort of piles. The hemorrhoidal red devil then pulled into the fast lane and prevented any other cars from overtaking; cue a string of profanities from the Husband and a heated discussion about this 'Woman's' driving (spot the stereotype). When eventually the red devil pulled into the slow lane we sped up alongside her to discover that 'she' was in fact a diminutive 'he'. Of course realizing that he was cursing a midget the Husband changed his tune (as I have mentioned he has a soft spot for the vertically challenged) and commented on how the specially adapted car must be faulty affecting the dwarf's driving abilities.

The Silver Fox performed admirably on the journey considering the slow moving August Bank Holiday Weekend traffic. Due to the congested motorways we decided to pull in near Nottingham over night and visit Cousin Mental, his girlfriend and their dogs Sid and Nancy, who live on a canal boat and are currently touring the waterways of Britain. Cousin Mental (rhymes with Oriental) is a tattooed ex-biker, with a penchant for cider, who sports a Ginger Angel (i.e. a Ginger Mowhawk Mullet). I have never seen him wear a shirt with sleeves regardless of the weather, but this gives us a chance to gaze at his tattoo collection which includes a flaming skull and a chopper motorcycle. Cousin Mental's usual greeting is a massive lung-deflating bear hug and something along the lines of "'Allo Girlie." Cousin Mental is one of my favourite in-laws because of his rough and ready appearance and huge voice. He has a huge throaty laugh (which I've noticed that the Husband emulates when around him) and booming voice with the sort of English accent I'd previously only heard on T.V - we once asked him to spell the name of the town we where meeting him in, "Hodderson, Heytch - OH - D - nuvva D - ergh - son, Hodderson!"

We had a roaring old night with Mental and his lovely girlfriend involving a couple of ciders and a conversation about couples giving each other "The Righ' Ump" (The Right Hump for those of you partial to pronouncing all your consonants, the Right Hump is akin to the Arse-Ache, which is what the Husband was giving me last week). After a fair few ciders the Husband and I tottered over the lock gate to our little car where we spent a good hour attempting to reconfigure the seats in our new estate and blow up our air mattress for a kip in the back. The Husband was sure he had packed the foot pump, but as he couldn't find it spent 45 minutes of the hour blowing up the air bed manually, in between needing to lie down for fear of mock charging. Eventually he found the pump and we settled ourselves into the rear of the Silver Fox for a nice old kip.

Am pleased that new car can double as a mobile home, as the Husband and I do enjoy a spot of pikey living.

Why, Why do you mock me?

Have been back in Rule Britannia for exactly four days now. Romantic reunion with Husband has imploded in spectacular manner. Husband has taken 1 week off work. We were meant to meet at his sister's house in a British seaside town, spend a day or two of quality time with our 3 lovely nephews and 1 niece and then head back towards Scotland at our leisure, camping en route and enjoying the Great British Summer.

But instead God has mocked our plans and the following has happened:

- The Husband arrived and was unbelievably grumpy for a full day (as we haven't seen each other in 6 weeks, we need a period of readjustment.)

- The car started making funny noises. The car promptly exploded - this caused two forms of grumpiness mine in the 'I told you to stop driving it as though you were pulling it through your arse' and the Husband's disgruntlement as the now kaput car was his castle.

- We are now inflicting ourselves for an extended period on our poor in-laws, who I might add, are in the middle of renovating their house (bathroom has no window just large hole through which neighbours can watch acts of defecation - but very good for aeration of said action). As previously mentioned we are also now bunking with four children. This is not improving any romantic feeling. But doing wonders for stopping my biological clock.

- The Great British Summer appears to be rained out - causing a sort of unintentional dual shower/toileting action when tending to ablutions in the bathroom without a window.

- Husband is now looking at a variety of ridiculous cars to replace inoperative VW Polo, this includes a Porsche, a Jaguar, Audi's and a variety of BMW's.

- This combination of events means that every time I look at my Husband I have an overwhelming urge to cause him actual physical harm (again bad for romance, but good for preventing untimely impregnation).

Day improved when we took our 7 year old nephew out for a hot chocolate. He gestured towards my cuppaccino and asked in all sincerity if I was enjoying my cuppa-tea-no. He then slurped his beverage with such reckless abandon that he was left with the best milk tache I've seen in a long while:

And that made me feel a lot better. Tick-tock.

We Want Jobs...

Back in Blighty after my week’s mini-break in South Africa. *Tear*

A very family orientated holiday as entire reason for trip was the momentous First Birthday of my niece, Queenie. (Niece is not actually called Queenie, but as her nanny likes to use terms of endearment like, “you are my queenie, you are my A1, you are my five star” I thought I’d adopt the moniker for the purposes of blogging.) Queenie turned one and had a ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ Themed birthday. I had no idea how much production goes into all two hours of a first birthday party. Somehow I landed up in charge of décor – which involved colouring in paper cut outs of teddy bears with the help of my school chum, Klong. Armed with 2 bottles of wine and a smorgasbord of colouring pencils we churned out some beaut teddy bears – the red polka dot one with the squinty eyes was very clearly penned at the end of wine bottle number two:

Clearly blind to the realities of my artistic talents my frazzled sister then asked me to ice the cake. Poor Queenie got a canary yellow iced teddy bear shaped cake, complete with marshmallow ears, jelly baby eyes and little gummy bear shaped buttons. Truly it was a vision:

In the spirit of all things familial I stayed with my parents. I forgot about my Father’s tendency to ‘green things up’ i.e. turn out lights while you are busy in a room. His favourite trick is to plunge you into darkness whilst you are wallowing in the bath. He then plays deaf to your cries of help. I do commend his green initiative - if he didn’t turn out the lights the local municipality (council) would. I arrived in the middle of the municipal worker’s annual strike. The striking refuse collectors would like an 18% pay rise and so have taken to the streets toytoying (dancing and singing protest songs whilst brandishing placards). The toytoying workers not only knocked over rubbish bins and sprinkled rubbish in their wake but they also cut power and water supplies to certain parts of the city. Very persuasive negotiation tactics. One toytoying worker was seen brandishing the placard “WE WANT JOBS, NOT PENIS!” My father and I spent a great deal of time decoding this, I thought they meant, “We want jobs, not to be screwed” whilst my old Pa thought it meant “we want jobs, not pennies.”

Being home I was reminded how ‘hard’ South Africans are. Being mid-winter the country was gripped by a particularly icy spell with daytime temperatures of 11’C. Clearly living in Britain has made me very soft as I was vibrating with cold and was surgically attached to my duck-down body warmer all week. The family seemed unperturbed by the cold snap – doors and windows were thrust open and remained so at all hours to “get rid of the poofy smells” to quote my mother. Personally I’d rather block my nose to the farting of the hounds than live in an Arctic wind tunnel, but “Afrika is nie vir sussies nie” (Africa is not for sissies). And I’ve been a little sissified, spoiled by first world novelty notions like draught excluders and central heating.

Living in Britain I have also been cushioned in my first world anxieties; soul-searching decisions like should I invest in a pair of brogues or are they too last season and are dungarees really making a comeback. But a little incident put life into perspective: my mom and I were standing in the queue to pay for our groceries when my mom noticed that the man in front of us had left his toothbrush behind in the shopping basket. When she asked if it was his he shook his head and looked embarrassed. I naively told my mom to leave it, thinking he had changed his mind. A woman of action, mum commandeered the toothbrush paid the R15 (£1) and swiftly popped it into his calloused hand. He responded with a bashful gnarled-tooth smile (in need of immediate dentistry). Clocking the contents of his shopping basket – polony, bread and maas (sour milk) I was suddenly aware just how big a luxury one bog-standard toothbrush is. My mum’s justification, “If he has to prioritise over food or a toothbrush he’ll never have one and he’ll lose all his teeth. And just look at Queenie (1 year old and toothless) to see how hard it is to gum your food.”

Ah, nothing like a bit of third world reality to count your blessings by.

WE WANT JOBS, NOT PENIS!

Africa Baby!

Back in the Motherland!

My final hours with PantyHead were a bit fraught – faced with a captive audience of her daughter, my replacement carer and myself the old girl cranked up the crazy to all new levels. Heavy breathing, earache, icy feet and a pain in the chest were just a few of the symptoms she developed in my final hours. The Doctor was called, but unfortunately for the old termagant [|ˈtərməgənt|noun - a harsh-tempered or overbearing woman] her usual middle-aged gentleman doctor was off cavorting in the South of France. PantyHead was duly unimpressed with the fresh-faced female doctor who introduced herself on a first name basis (Anna). PantyHead's performance was awe-inspiring; she veered through dramatic highs and lows - terror, joy, agony - she showcased them all. But after checking her vital signs Dr Anna declared that the old girl was still alive and would be for some time. At this point PantyHead stomped her feet (literally) and demanded a blood test:

PantyHead: Tell them Emma! Tell them how I can’t stand or eat [Despite tucking in to egg and bacon a mere 3 hours earlier.] They don’t believe me. TELL THEM! Mention my earache! Tell them about my stomachache. TELL THEM!

Me: [Patting her bony shoulder] They are aware of your situation. You are in good hands. Please try to relax.

PantyHead: DARLING, DARLING! [Starts bellowing for daughter] I want a blood test. I need it TODAY! [Stamping feet in the spirit of Rumplestiltskin.]

Darling: I’m sorry Mother, but the doctor cannot do a blood test today.

PantyHead: I need it today. [More foot stamping] I might not last till next week!

At this point I took my leave and left the New-Me blinking like a rabbit in the headlights, mouthing ‘help’ as I closed the door.

I revelled unapologetically in my freedom. Even the 5 hours I spent in Heathrow Terminal One were bloody lovely after weeks of incarceration. My flight was a true pleasure. In the spirit of a parolee I was amazed at the wonders of conversation with people my age with fully functioning cochlea. I had a bout of verbal diarrhoea all over my in flight neighbour. Luckily the glamorous ebony creature I caked in my intimacies was interesting, funny and equally talkative. We were soon sipping wine and swapping life tails like long lost friends. I knew all about the turbulent relationship with her ex-fiancé, her business plan to open a boutique in Lusaka, her beautiful 4 year old. She was familiar with the trauma of my working life, Scottish fisherman and pangs for progeny. With our life histories logged we finally learnt each other’s names; my new friend was called Savannah. Later I made friends with Grandpa Neville across the aisle from me (I didn’t actually call him Grandpa Neville, that makes him sound like some sort of pervert, I was merely using ‘grandpa’ as an indication of his age).

All talked out, I slipped into a wine-induced in-flight nap and I thought about the Chav ravaged smouldering London I was leaving behind and of PantyHead. Once during my nap the ping of the seatbelt light startled me awake – I thought it was the ding-dong of PantyHead’s call bell and was most relieved to wake up in a cylindrical metal tube barreling through the atmosphere and not in Panty Manor. In the darkness of a sleeping (farting) plane I was glad to be heading back to my people. Africa Baby!

I Got Life...

We have cranked up the crazy in the House of PantyHead this past weekend. I told the aging martinet (martinet |ˌmärtnˈet|noun a strict disciplinarian, esp. in the armed forces.) that I was leaving and in the spirit of all good break-ups the old girl has gone vindictive on my ass – she is on said bottom more frequently and painfully than a pile. After I informed her of the details of her replacement carer - a younger, less experienced, (still) South African model, she spent an hour mulling over her heartbreak before issuing me with a written list of regime changes that should be adhered to before the impending change-over:

Item: 1) No open-toed shoes to be worn in the house (as these apparently scuff the polished wooden floor – I have been assigned the task of pricing a new mechanised floor polisher. Presumably this exercise in futility is to illustrate the exact expense incurred by my habitual slop (flip-flop) wearing. No consideration is given for it being as hot as Hades in this house, or that as the average person excretes 2 tablespoons of sweat from their feet in a day and my freakish feet produce closer to 6 tbsp they therefore grow inelegantly smelly when incarcerated in humid conditions.)

Item: 2) New carer is not to bath upstairs at night in case she is urgently required, she should instead shower downstairs before PantyHead wakens, so that she is on-call at all times and the bathroom is free for PantyHead’s laxative-induced ablutions.

Item: 3) PantyHead should be consulted about each item that comes out of the washing machine in order to clarify where it should be dried. For example towels must be dried in the tumble drier in the garage but, wools & vests must be hand-stretched before being hung up on wooden or wire hangers (depending on the item), whereas panties must be pegged on wire hangers and dried in the window above PantyHead’s armchair for no fewer than 2 days before being hung in the airing cupboard for a further 2 days (I think PantyHead might be hydrophobic this would explain her fear of damp clothing and bathing – we have had a record breaking one sponge bath in the 5 week’s I have been here. All very continental and a possible dereliction of duty but I really couldn’t fight any longer about the resultant ‘damp on her chest’ that a stepped up hygiene routine would cause.)

The list continues, but peters out to more boring items, like the correct storage of milk and the compulsory use of the yellow jug for skimmed milk and the white jug for semi-skimmed…

…That’s where I stopped listening. My eyes glazed over and I wondered at which stage in life one grew so dissatisfied with the dirty art of living that you simply shut the door and filled your time by obsessing about milk jugs, scuffed floors and the salt to sugar ratio of salmon.

And just when I was thinking life was a frankly a little bit shit I went for a walk and got caught in a sudden shower. I sat brooding, shielding myself from fat, juicy raindrops under an ancient oak tree, lost in my melancholia and annoyed as my meticulously straightened fringe pinged into wayward corkscrews. A cold wind stung my cheeks as Nina Simone sang into my ears “and what have I got, why am I alive anyway? Yeah, what have I got nobody can take away…I got my hair, I got my head, got my brains, got my ears, got my eyes, got my nose, got my mouth. I got my smile, I got my tongue, got my chin, got my neck, got my boobies, got my heart, got my soul…”

And I thought how marvellous it is to feel the rain on your skin. I got life and a ticket to South Africa, leaving Wednesday…

Morning Glory

What an action packed last 12 hours we’ve had:

At 11pm last night PantyHead called me out of my cosy little bed for an impromptu security check. At her insistence we had to trundle round from room to room while I unlocked and then relocked a variety of doors and windows to prove that they were in fact locked in the first place. My sense of humour failed a bit.

Later PantyHead explained this post war-paranoia as a throwback from her childhood where she grew up in Northern Ireland. Her war-widowed aunt lived with them and used to taunt PantyHead with the threat “Old Mr Mosley is going to get you” or “Old Mr Mosley is hiding under the stairs” (Old Mr Mosley a.ka. the boogieman, or muti-man – if you grew up in South Africa). PantyHead said it was very cruel and this is why she is “such a nervous individual.”

At 7am this morning I heard PantyHead on the prowl and fearing a repeat of the security check I dragged my heels a bit. At 7.30am I popped my head round her door to find the room empty but a tell tale trail of high-fibre led me to the bathroom door. It is much like big game hunting round here; follow the old dear’s spoor…

…Once located PantyHead informed me that she had had one hell of a night. At approximately 3am she had felt that she had eaten too much salt the previous day. Fearing the consequences of this salt-overload she had dug out a medical reference book and was horrified to discover that too much salt can make you blind. Traumatised at the thought of losing her eyes PantyHead had thought to offset the previous day’s salt intake with some sugar. She duly quaffed half a bottle of white wine (for the sugar). Having drunk the wine the old girl was struck with the brainwave that she could simply expel the excess salt from her body; she thus consumed:

• 10 prunes
• 4 sizeable table spoons of Senokot (or Shitalot as the Husband calls it)
• Half a cup of Lactulose (a favourite laxative with the elderly)

Having double dosed on laxatives the old girl was quite sure that her salt worries would be a thing of the past and she felt happy in the knowledge that the laxatives would take a good 8 hours to come into effect. WRONG! PantyHead spent a perilous night perched on her commode until she moved over to the toilet, which is where I found her this morning.

I slept through the entire blessed event, as the old termagant rather unusually didn’t summon me. She now has quite a severe case of the shits and we are shuttling between armchair and commode.

Let this be a lesson to you a heady concoction of wine and liquid laxatives can be one hell of a thing.

P.S. PantyHead has just asked that I go to the shops for more Senokot (shitalot) - she's afraid of being caught short. Say what?

Summer Geriatric Style

Things have been hotting up in London town – summer has finally broken through and yesterday we experienced a sweltering 29’C - cue gleeful excitement from this Southern Hemisphere lass. Unfortunately the increase in temperature has been directly proportional to an increase in my blood pressure - as PantyHead has insisted on no fewer than 9 costume changes in one day:

8am – We start the day in a pair of woollen trousers (a tad warm for summer) and a ¾ sleeve peach knit-blend shirt. [Shirt has recently been part of a scandal as PantyHead could not find it and so immediately declared it to have been stolen by the previous Kiwi carer. Tried to explain that no one (except for perhaps Ugly Betty) would want to steal her granny chic salmon knits. PantyHead was adamant that the carer had done it as her friend had once had an au pair who stole an expensive lace christening shawl (and therefore it must be the hired-help). I later found the pink shirt along with it’s identical twins, so we now have 3 salmon summer knits to select from – one of which PantyHead teems with her wool trousers for the day ahead.]

10am – Day is warming up and so is PantyHead. Requires a lighter ‘patterned’ shirt. After scouring her wardrobe I present her with three options, she goes for the button-down Jaeger shirt in an almost Hawaiian print (quite hard on the eyes).

10.15am – Hawaii 5-0 shirt is not allowing for maximum ventilation to the underarms. PantyHead takes off one of her two under vests.

10.45am – Still not feeling the maximum summer cool PantyHead sends me in search of a ‘patterned’ dress. I return with a sleeveless over-knee 1970s frock. We change into new bohemian chic, in process taking off existing vest and swapping it for the other one.

11.00am – PantyHead is now slightly ‘too cool’ and sends me in search of her white sleeveless cardigan. “That’ll do the trick”, she tells me.

11.30am – PantyHead still a bit frigid, she suggests I find her beige sleeveless cardigan, which she dutifully places on top of her white cardigan. To recap she is now in a sleeveless summer dress with two sleeveless cardigans on top. I am tempted to suggest she simply wear one longer sleeved item, but stop myself by imagining the extensive pffaffing that will be required.

[A brief respite from the madness: lunch, my 2 hour break and reluctant return]

4pm – “Ah, Emma so glad to see you, I’m feeling a little cold…” PantyHead suggests that we take off her two cricketing cardigans and her dress, replace her other underlets and then put it all back on again, which we summarily do.

5pm – Still feeling a slight ‘damp on her chest’ PantyHead suggests she get into her warmer dressing gown to watch television in. We decamp her out of 3 layers, leaving 2 under vests and the warm gown.

9pm – Bed time. Alas, PantyHead is still not quite right and suggests she change into her lighter dressing gown. Clad in her summer gown I bid her goodnight.

9.30pm- PantyHead calls me suggesting she has made a grave error and perhaps she should put the other ‘warmer’ gown back on, but lose a vest. At which point I feel the will to live slipping from my grasp…

You just wouldn't believe it...

There is no arguing that my time with PantyHead has resulted in bouts of frenzied comfort eating (cue 4 Kit Kats in one sitting) and uncontrollable expulsions of expletives under my breath (to the point where I wondered if I might have undiagnosed Tourette’s Syndrome). Generally I don’t feel that we are kindred spirits or even of the same planet, but last night I felt terribly sad for her:

We were getting ready for bed (my favourite time of day – sing “ding-dong the witch is in bed”) and the old harridan had removed her panty headwear and was administering a comb-over to what remains of her wispy hair. While staring wistfully into her dressing table mirror she remarked,

“You wouldn’t believe looking at me now that I used to go to all those dances. I had such beautiful clothes from Harrods. You just wouldn’t believe it.”

Looking over her shoulder at this diminutive balding gorgon before me I couldn’t for the life of me picture a young follicular-rich PantyHead, but the terrible pang of her disbelief was tangible if only for that moment; until she turned from her reflection with a sigh and the confidence was broken and we were back to our master servant roles. Still I tucked her up in bed with a little more care than usual (technically I helped her sit in her armchair, remember she sleeps upright – strangely vampiric) and said what my great-grandmother always said to me, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.” PantyHead smiled dumbly back at me.

As I was backing out of the room the Husband phoned. I immediately launched into my sorry tale and we agreed that neither of us could imagine looking at our 90 year old selves in a mirror; marvelling at where the time had gone and at the people we had been.

Frankly, I find it completely petrifying the thought of staring at an old bald ogress in a mirror and realising that she’s me. So today I’m being a little kinder to PantyHead even when she complains that her steak is too tough, the ice-cream has been scooped wrong, the glasses are in the wrong cupboard, this doesn’t look like exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine…

…Oh, sod it I preferred the comfort eating and compulsive utterance of obscenities.

143 grams of Plaice & 5 liquid ounces of White Wine

PantyHead has a cold. The origins of which she immediately traced back to her long-suffering daughter who had stopped by this weekend. I overheard their phone conversation, not because I was eavesdropping (although it is one of my supernatural skills), but because PantyHead has a new auditory-enhancing phone. The new phone is so loud that I have to hold it at arm’s length from my ear, for fear of rupturing my eardrum:

PantyHead: Hello Dear, I’m just phoning to see how your cold is?

Dear: Hello Mother, I don’t have a cold.

PantyHead: Are you sure Dear, because I heard you sneeze 3 times when you were here and now I have a terrible cold, it’s on my chest.

Dear: Mother, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Well, Emma doesn’t have a cold and I heard you sneeze. You must have a cold coming - that’s when they’re at their most infectious.

Dear: MOTHER, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Are you sure dear, you sound rather cross?

Dear: I’m not cross and I do not have a cold.

PantyHead: [Voice growing reedy and thin and raised by 3 octaves] Aren’t you lucky to be so healthy. I feel terrible.

Dear: Mother, I’m very sorry that you have a cold.

Poor Woman (I mean ‘Dear’) can’t even sneeze without sparking accusations of being a disease-harbouring incubus. Of course we had to ring the Doctor posthaste. He nipped round sharpish and despite depressing PantyHead’s tongue whilst shining his torch into various orifices (the plural of which should really be orifi) as well as listening to her chest could find no signs of ill health. He urged her to rest and eat normally.

‘Eat normally’, he said. PantyHead chose to ignore this advice and now demands that I weigh out her food as this will help to stabilise her blood sugar levels. She is quite precise in her demands, requiring exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine. When I stupidly questioned why she doesn’t just eat as much plaice as she feels like she lectured me on the sugar to salt ratio differential between plaice and salmon. Apparently she can eat as much salmon as she likes, but plaice is another kettle of fish, as it were. According to the Gospel of PantyHead, the alcohol in her wine is cancelled out if the wine is imbibed with a glass of water. Again for a bit of sport I took her up on this topic, but was told in no uncertain terms that a glass of water, following a glass of wine makes it non-alcoholic. “Of course” she said, “you don’t understand this because you are not a nurse.”

Lucky she doesn’t possess a driving licence or a car – “Well, hello, Mr Orificer, no I’m not ovsher the limit, I’ve only hass jsust 4 glashes of wine, but I hass water whish them so it doeshnt’ count, doesh it?”